


The Winter Dragon

by Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Gen, Has a bit of everything, M/M, Multi, Other, R plus L equals J, Sibling Incest, Violence, War, far-future fic, technically canon if you look at it right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne/pseuds/Maester_Aemon_Heterodyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A century after the War of Five Kings and the War of the Dawn, a century after Daenerys Targaryen restored her dynasty to the throne and returned dragons to the world, Westeros is at rest. Summers are long, winters short and mild, harvests are good, merchants trade freely, and the realm prospers. </p><p>Alysane Stark is living a relatively peaceful and carefree life at Winterfell, enjoying the freedom of her youth, when a great green dragon appears in the skies above her home, upending her once simple existence. With the arrival of three Targaryen dragonriders just days after, she learns that she must go south for training as a rider herself. There, the young Alys becomes deeply entangled in the politics of the day, just as a war for the Iron Throne breaks out and threatens to tear the kingdoms apart. </p><p>A distant sequel to WendyNerd's Trials and Tricks and its companion stories. </p><p>This story has now been permanently discontinued, but is being rewritten as The Dragon of the North</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alysane I

Alysane Stark always woke before the sun. Today was no different. She had gotten an early start to escape the confines of Winterfell for a ride before breaking her fast, and had saddled up and been riding by the time the pale autumn sun had appeared on the horizon. It looked almost white today, and gave a greyish cast to all the world it touched. 

Today’s sky was a cold, pale blue, cloudless and devoid of any detail but the sun, yet for some reason Alys’ eye wandered to it every so often, and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why. It felt almost as if she was expecting something (or was it someone?) whenever she glanced up at the empty air. She kept scanning the horizon, looking for anything that might be out of place. Nothing obvious presented itself, however; all the trees of the Wolfswood, all the distant rolling hills and fields surrounding Winterfell, all the grass and the light dusting of autumn snow, the dark mountains on the horizon, they were all just as she’d left them yesterday. Something distracted her now though, making it much harder to enjoy the crisp air rushing past her as much as she might.

Sansa, her direwolf, running alongside Alys and her horse, Warrior, felt it too: the great she-wolf stood on edge, her hackles up, sensing some danger neither she nor the girl understood. Her fear was unsettling to Alys, for Sansa was a giant even among direwolves, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with many men and was easily as heavy as a small horse. She was one who feared nothing, and intimidated everyone. 

In truth, Sansa was not as fearsome as one might imagine. Strong and protective, she was really quite gentle, and perhaps undeserving of the fear she instilled. She had been with Alys for many years, more than she could remember. They’d been inseparable since the wolf was a little pup, when Alys had been little more than a wild little wolf pup herself. 

The three guardsmen who always accompanied Alys for her morning ritual, at her mother's insistence, were oblivious to anything unusual. 

Winterfell eventually came back into view, providing a pleasant distraction from whatever it was. The ancient castle looked half a mountain, a grey-walled feature of the landscape of the North. It was said that you never forget your fist view of Winterfell, and Alys could believe it, though she’d called it home her whole life. Many, she knew, saw it with a sense of foreboding, feeling it to be imposing and unwelcoming, but to her it meant warmth, safety, and above all family.

Her approach did not go unnoticed. Several young direwolves from Mother’s kennel trotted out to greet her. Two young males, one grey the other white and light brown, came in the closest. They moved slowly, looking about, sniffing Alys and Sansa, curious more than anything. A third, larger than the others, stayed further back, watching her intently. He was a quiet, dark grey-black wolf named Padfoot. She smiled at him, then spurred Warrior into a gallop towards the gates. All four wolves surrounding her bounded at top speed, Sansa and Padfoot keeping up with horse while the smaller two fell gradually further behind. The wild males eventually peeled off back to the kennel.

Padfoot was much younger than Sansa, and unlike her had been born wild. Brandon’s original wolf, whom Alys could scarce remember from the early days of her childhood and whose name she could not remember at all, had been lost to him when he had been younger than she was now, and had been unable to consider finding a new wolf. When out riding about three years ago, however, the three Stark siblings had some across an injured young direwolf, and decided to bring the pup back to Winterfell so it might recover. Brandon had taken the care of the new wolf as his most serious responsibility, and when the little Padfoot recovered he’d followed her brother around everywhere, becoming soon his constant and closest companion.

On her approach, her escorts slowed and allowed her to proceed through the gate alone. When she passed through the gate she was greeted by Helmut, one of their guardsmen. She nodded to him absently, her thoughts more on food than anything else. Sansa and Padfoot both trotted away together towards the Great Hall to be fed. Before entering the stables she stole a final glance up towards the sky, to find still nothing.

The feeling seemed to be diminishing, though. It didn’t go away, but by the time she reached the stables she could nearly ignore it. There, waiting for her inside, was the stable hand, Jory. He was comely lad of eight-and-ten, strong and humorous, full of energy and kind smiles. He wasn’t very quick-witted, though the first to admit it, and he had an honest and carefree manner about him that put everyone at ease, one that made both men and horses relax with a word. His whole life, his existence, was devoted to the horses he served, and he woke ever early to make sure that they were cared for. Jory was always there to greet her in the mornings, and take care of Warrior. He would forsake breaking his fast with Winterfell’s household to care for his charges.

He smiled at her. His countenance and calm helped to ease her from her earlier tenseness. “Mornin', Alys. Might I take that fine horse o’ yours?” Jory wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, and unlike much of the rest the Stark household, unflinchingly respected her desire not to be called ‘Lady’. She never had been much of a lady, much to her mother’s despair and brothers’ amusement. 

She returned him a smile, nodding distractedly. Somewhat gracelessly, she descended from upon her mount, recovered her saddlebags, and departed the stables, smiling to Jory on the way out, passing her escorts as they made their way in. 

Mother insisted, generally, when not outside riding or fighting in the practice yard, that Alysane wear a gown. Alys cared as little for this as she did being called a lady, but was willing to indulge her mother for a few hours at a go. To avoid wearing gowns, she knew she must but go outside the walls, and this she would do at every opportunity. Alys had just enough patience to put on a gown, for a time at least, but only just. For her mother's sake alone would she delay breaking her fast, changing first to a dress.  

She chose that day a simple blue gown, modestly cut. Alys had never been one for decoration, and her wardrobe reflected this. Once gowned, she took a brush to her unruly chestnut hair, wincing when it caught in some of her innumerable snarls. Properly washed and tended to, her hair was soft and smooth, complimented by many, but even a few short hours of activity returned it to such a mess even a bird’s nest couldn’t hold a torch to it. Several uncomfortable minutes of impatient and painful brushing later, she decided that her hair wouldn’t be getting any less snarled without far more work than she was willing to put in before eating. After a quick glance in her mirror, where she saw her large purple eyes staring back at her, set in a long face and framed by dark brown curls. _This’ll have to do,_ she though.

She turned to make her way out the room, but as she did, the sense of expectation returned. It felt now rather like someone watching her, and drove her to look around sharply, trying to find to find what might be following her about. To no avail though; there was nothing for her to see, and something deep within her told her that there wouldn’t be even before she looked. The feeling passed quickly this time though, slipping away without a trace. Alys shuddered, the hair on her arms and legs standing on end, before taking a deep breath and making her way finally to the Great Hall for food and family.

The morning meal was already underway, but only just, when Alys got there. Her mother, Lyarra Stark, ruling Lady of Winterfell, sat with Alys’ brother Brandon, deeply engaged in conversation of some sort. They paid Alys when she moved to join them little mind, both bidding her naught but good morning before promptly resuming their talk. This was much the same she’d walked into for the past six months: her brother and mother paying her little attention while she ate, making her feel more alone than she’d thought possible among her family. Mother would not likely care about the state of her hair at this rate, she reflected. This is not the way things should have been. Mother was supposed to be concerned with little things, then talk and joke lightheartedly with all her brothers, not engage in complex discussions about deep and important things at the table every morning with her eldest whilst sparing for her youngest scarce any thought.

“Brandon- we’ve been through this more times than I can count. Please, can you agree to at least start looking for yourself? Winterfell will n-”

“Need a lady, yes. I know, mother. As you’ve said a thousand times.” This again. Their mother was a traditional lady, at least by Northern stardards, and expected them both to marry, and soon. She was more lenient with Alys, due to her tender age of only fourteen, though she’d begun searching for suitors since Alys’ recent flowering. Brandon had whole ten years on her, however, and remained as yet unbetrothed. Mother was, at the very least, not the kind of person who would force her children into a marriage they didn’t at least have some say in beforehand, but was growing impatient with Brandon’s unwillingness to even look into the matter. This had spawned numerous and sometimes less than civil discussions between the two. The situation was only made worse by the wedding of their brother Edric to Johanna Lannister half a year past. If the younger brother was already married, why not the elder?

Worse though were the rumours about Brandon, about why he seemed to have so little interest in marriage. Rumours, typically, that he preferred the company of men. Though these whisperings were, in fact, completely justified, and all the present Starks knew it, it did little to help the image of the House that they were allowed to spread.

Brandon’s face, this morning, showed in its typically expressive manner all the anger and frustration he’d been feeling since the wedding. He looked, she noticed though, hurt, as if the situation had finally begun to truly get to him. Under mother’s stern gaze, which at the best of times was difficult to ignore, seemed to pierce Brandon more deeply today, and Alys felt horrible for him. Edric, at least, had escaped that gaze of mother's. She could only pick at her food lightly while this went on next to her, no matter how hungry she was.

After some time in silence Brandon said “Fine. I… I’ll marry. Myra Royce. I can marry her, if it please.”

Mother’s face lit up instantly. “Splendid! I will send a raven this afternoon. I’m sure the Lady Myra will be delighted, as will her father.”

Though mother looked ready to hug her son, Alysane’s heart sunk as might a rock. Myra Royce was scarce older than she, and naïve in a way that most Northwomen weren’t. She was a sweet girl, but shouldn’t be married to a man wouldn’t have any desire for her as a woman. But it was for Brandon that Alys was scared. He would likely be very unhappy with a young girl as a wife waiting on him. Worse, Alys was about to lose her brother, see him married off against his will. It wouldn’t be as bad as losing Edric, for Brandon was the heir to Winterfell and would at least remain here with her, but change it would still be, and Alys was reluctant to accept any change to her family. She had long known he would need to marry, that he had a duty to preserve the Stark line, but that didn’t make it any better now that the time has come. _Duty is the death of family._

She would need to marry one day, too, but she didn't want to think about that.

She could eat no more, she decided. Her usually insatiable appetite had failed her. She rose slowly, then made for the door, moving slightly faster with each step. She needed to hit something, and badly. Returning to her rooms she ungowned herself in favour of training leathers, strapped her sword to her belt, and ran out the door on light feet.

The rest of the day she spent in the training yard, hacking inexpertly at various dummies, not really practicing so much as simply hitting them over and over again as hard as she could. When Ser Merrick Snow, their bastard master-at-arms, appeared, he watched her for a while, then started the day’s instruction. Alys could scarce focus on it though, and found herself on her back a dozen times before she retired for the afternoon.

The rest of the day she spent reading in Winterfell's extensive library, taking her evening meal there, and waiting for the need to sleep to come upon her. Alysane eventually found the pages of her book beginning to blur, and knew it was time to find her chambers.

The sense of expectation she’d felt that morning returned to her then, as she was settling in for bed. She tried to ignore it this time, but it persisted, and only exhaustion from the day’s activities finally brought her into sleep’s warm embrace in the face of that strange feeling.

Her dreams that night though proved stranger than the feeling, though.

 

OOOO

 

_The cool northern air whistled as she flew. Grassy plains stretched out below her, as far as could be seen. A dark green forest, and behind it grey mountains, were becoming ever closer. She flapped her great green-and-bronze wings, pushing herself higher, ever higher. The air became cold around her, but she felt none of it. Fire burned within; no cold could touch her._

_A point came, too soon, where she could fly no higher. The air was too thin, and no matter how powerful she was, she had to breathe. She turned down then, folding her wings back and falling swiftly downward, watching as the world far below grew closer. Just before she reached the ground, her wings snapped out, pulling her out of the dive with a jerk. One flap, then two, then three, and she’s gliding along the ground, where she could see sheep fleeing beneath her. She roared at them, and saw a panic-beset human not very far away. She could laugh, as humans do, but she hadn’t the organs._

_She flapped again, moving higher, but more slowly, more deliberately, more focused. She could feel the girl who saw through her eyes, and knew her to be close; she would reach her soon. She needed to get there._

 

OOOO

 

Alysane awoke in a slow and uncomfortable manner the next morning. As she stretched, she remembered the dream she’d had that night. A dream of flying, of scales, and sheep fleeing beneath her. How monstrous strange it was. _I was a dragon. I had wings and scales,_ she thought. But no, that wasn’t quite right. This felt far more like it did when she slipped into Sansa’s skin. No one, however, had ever been recorded as being able to warg into a dragon, and Alys wasn’t even sure it was possible. _It must be, though. I just did it, didn’t I?_

That day passed much as had the last, though without mother’s and Brandon’s arguing the mood of the castle was much improved. The day after that passed similarly, as did the next, and the next, on for the next two weeks.

And each and every night, the strange dragon dreams returned to her. She’d told no one, nor did she plan to. Something kept bothering her about those dreams though; something she found hard to place for the longest time. Nearly a fortnight after the first dream, it finally occurred to her what this something was: the dragon was moving North. It had noticed the air becoming progressively cooler as it flew, and alongside its relentless travel in one direction could only mean  that it was moving northward. More important, however, was that she’d recognised what the dragon had seen that night. She’d been to Castle Cerwyn countless times, and there was no mistaking what the dragon had flown over just as she was waking. _The dragon was coming to Winterfell._


	2. Alysane II

Alysane moved quickly that morning, dressing with her typical care, and a speed she didn’t generally employ for anything that wasn’t sword play. There was a dragon coming, and it wasn’t waiting for her to get up to see it. She must act now.

When she (after what seemed like ages) managed to get herself outside, the sky was beginning to show the coming of the day. The weather this morning was nothing like it had been when she’d first felt the dragon. Winter’s hold was growing apparent, and the air reflected this with knife-like cold and unusual stillness. Before, the first time she felt the dragon, there had been no clouds in the sky, yet now there was no sky but for the clouds. They hung over the North as might a blanket of iron wool, and brought with them a kind of darkness the sun didn’t properly penetrate in these early hours. More than anything, the cold sun merely brought a change of colours, turning the sky from iron to steel. She shivered; even acclimated to such climes as she might be, it was still not good for her to be sitting still here.

Other than a few lookouts, not a soul moved about the castle. Alys knew it would be perhaps an hour before anyone else did; only Jory was ever up at this hour, and he usually woke a little later. Besides, she wouldn’t be going to the stables today. She would ascend the walls. The dragon was coming from the south-east, so to the southeast wall she would go.

And so she did. No one stood on the walls close enough to notice her, hidden where she was behind the crenellations. As the steel of the sky gave way to what could be considered, if only on the loosest sense, light, Alys gradually began to feel the presence she had all those weeks ago coming upon her again. Minute by minute, ever so unhurriedly, it grew and grew, until she felt as if someone were peering over her shoulder. She shivered again, and not entirely from cold. The feeling, the presence of the dragon as she knew well, was stronger than ever before, and different. By the time the morning had truly come the feeling was quite tangible.

Then, she saw it. Naught but a dot on the horizon at first, a point darker that the clouds, there was something moving at the edge of perception, with every passing moment becoming larger and larger. From its initial indistinctness, eventually the point developed a shape: a shape with wings to either side.

Alys heard some shuffling in the courtyard behind her. Probably guards, getting ready for the morning shift. One of the night lookouts spotted the dragon then, and started shouting. All hells broke loose. She swore. They’ll probably find her soon, and begin asking questions. _If they have the time. I imagine they’re going to be distracted for a while._

More shouting. After a few moments, the dragon coming ever closer, the clinking of armour could be heard down below. Several archers took up positions on the outer wall, not far from where she hid on the inner ramparts. _Time to leave then._ She took a final look at the dragon before tearing her eyes away to descend from the walls.

But she wouldn’t be getting away so soon. Wing-beats were now clearly audible, coming nearer to the castle every second. Just as Alysane was trying to make her escape someone saw her amidst the chaos and started shouting for her to get to safety milady, there’s a dragon approaching. Already headed down away from potential danger (though she was more concerned about stray arrows than she was the dragon; she had, in her dreams, felt its excitement, and it had no desire for violence she could discern), Alys was only too happy to obey.

But she did not go fully to safety. Prudence in time of danger, her typical course of action, would have led her back to the Great Keep and likely down into the crypts. She’d hid there from her mother or visiting lords she had no interest in entertaining many a time, and had vigorously explored as much as she dared as a child. The lower levels especially would be safe against nearly any attacker, even the Others of old. No, this time, she felt compelled to stay in the courtyard, waiting. No one busying themselves with defence seemed to care, so long as she wasn’t in the way; it was strange, actually, how she sometimes just became invisible to the people running about her. A few did shout for her to get back inside, but most were too distracted. No one tried to force the issue, or paid enough attention to ascertain whether she’d gotten back away from the danger.

In no time at all, the shouting on the walls turned to yelps and screams. With a great flapping noise the shadow of the great green dragon passed over her head, moving faster than anything so vast ought to. A loud trumpeting roar, one that sent a hair-raising coiling corkscrewing up her spine, was emitted from somewhere to the North, loud despite its increasing distance. The dragon came back and made another pass over the castle, giving Alysane a better look, and a better glimpse of its size: this dragon was beautiful, shiny green and bronze, cast over the largest creature Alys had ever seen, and she had met giants and the mammoths they kept. This dragon was a flying ship with sails, with room enough to fit the complementary rowing crew upon its back with room to spare for passengers.

There was, to Alys’ knowledge (which, concerning dragons, was not inconsiderable, for she’d spent much of her childhood being fascinated by their great strength and power), only one green dragon anywhere near so voluminous in existence: Rhaegal, one of the children of Queen Daenerys Stormborn. It had been half a century since anyone had ridden her; she’d allowed no one to mount her after her last rider, Prince Jon Targaryen. Atop her was, of course, no rider, or saddle.

_That means Rhaegal has come here- has come to me –on her own. Why? What makes me special?_

But she knew perfectly well why. Her father was a Targaryen, Prince Daeron the Damned, the Blood of the Dragon and Wolf, and her mother was like him a descendent of Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark, of the same bloods. Her mother’s and father’s ancestors back eight thousand years were skinchangers, descending from Bran the Builder in the North, and back five thousand years to the dragonlords of Old Valyria in the East. It only made sense that she would have some kind of connection to dragons, and that she might be able to warg them.

But why Rhaegal in particular? What made that dragon the special one? And why Alys? Both her brothers were every bit as much dragon and wolf as she was, and her mother as well. There was no sense to it, really. Her brothers were always the special ones. She was always wild and troublesome, and not half as smart as Edric or Brandon.  

Rhaegal gave another chilling scream. This wasn’t like the original; it seemed more one of desperation, rather than the excitement of before. Tinged, Alysane thought almost absurdly, with sadness. How she knew she couldn’t really say. After circling once again she seemed to realize that she could not land and greet her Stark, giving a second mournful cry before finally peeling away from her path and flying north, along the Kingsroad, most like.

While she stared in the direction of the dragon someone finally decided her enough of a priority to grab her and try to get her inside. She didn’t fight them.


	3. Alysane III

“Are you okay, Alys?” asked Brandon.

“I’m fine,” said Alysane. It was true, though she was very distracted and perhaps a bit shaken.

He gave her a knowing look, as if he didn’t believe her completely, but could see that it was technically true, and so pushed for no further answers. “Alright, sister. Go to your chambers. I don’t want you exposed while dragons are about.”

“Okay,” she said, huffing. She knew that being confined to chambers while the dragon was around was essentially an indefinite sentence, likely confining her to chambers for the rest of the day, and perhaps even after, since the dragon probably wasn’t going anywhere. Being stuck indoors was the worst kind of day. A pity, too. The day had only just begun. At least she wouldn’t be walking about the castle, subject to what her mother told her about ladies and proper forms of dress.

On the other hand, if she was to be stuck in the walls for the day, her chambers were as good as anywhere else, and she wanted to read. She would need peace for that; only her room would afford such, especially considering the chaotic circumstances. She would need to read about dragons.

Once she did get there, escorted by guards, she closed and locked her door. She didn’t imagine she would be going anywhere today, so she offed her day-clothing in favour of smallclothes and a nightgown before searching her shelves for any books of history that might mention Rhaegal. Many did, as it turned out, since she was one of the oldest three dragons alive, and countless books had been written on the she-dragon that had lived so long and birthed so many others.

Unfortunately, none of the books mentioned a great deal about Rhaegal that Alys did not know. This was only to be expected- she’d read all her tomes of dragonlore many times over since her dragon-brained childhood, and they would yield little she wouldn’t know after such a number of go-throughs. She did, however, enjoy nevertheless re-reading all the old stories of Sansa the Red Wolf and Prince Jon, of how his aunt Queen Daenerys I had slain the Night’s King, of the adventures of King Eddard I in his youth, and so many more. It brought her back to a place of peace and comfort, when mother would read her such tales at night, or when Brandon used to sit her on his lap and tell her about the Lands-Beyond-the-Wall and what lurked in the Haunted Forest.

But such times were gone. They had been for a long while. Even life at Winterfell would end for her soon; mother had yet to push the issue with her as she had her brothers, but a freshly-flowered young maiden of four-and-ten and of such noble, even royal, blood as Alys could not stay unmarried long. She hoped, at least, that mother would give her the choice of who to marry as she had Brandon and Edric, but mother would probably say something hurtful and oblivious about womanly duty to the parent.

The dragon might, at the very least, complicate such matters for a time. Maybe indefinitely. Would she be allowed to join the Kingsguard as had Ser Daemon Waters, when it was discovered he was a dragon rider? But no, she was a woman, and only two women had ever served in the order, and it had been a long time since. Besides, Alys was no knight. She hadn’t the skill, and she knew it.

But maybe, just maybe, if it didn’t just make things worse, the dragon would help her change everything for the better.

 

\----

 

It occurred to her after some hours that she could, in fact, simply look for answers from the source it self- or, rather, the source _her_ self. That she could warg into a dragon was the whole reason for this predicament, after all. Putting her book down, she climbed into bed and laid down, relaxing her self and allowing her mind to wander in a very literal sense.

The powerful mind of Rhaegal eventually came into focus. Through eyes far sharper than her own, Alys could see the countryside of the North sprawling in all directions. Winterfell was nowhere in sight, and the dragon seemed compelled to turn around, and she strained against every instinct to maintain her course. She was, however, aware of the danger of being shot at if she tried to land on the castle, and knew that simply burning it would risk hurting her whole reason for the journey northwards.

Alys sympathized; loneliness and the desire for a new friend were strong with her as well, but there was little chance she could get her mother to allow her to keep a dragon. Mother kept in the kennels usually around a dozen wild direwolves, not to mention the three (formerly four, when Edric was still there) for her family, one for each resident Stark. 

A kennel full of wild wolves was dangerous enough to intimidate even the Free Folk of the Dreadfort when they came to visit, especially since the better-tempered ones could roam freely. Naturally, the lords and members of older Northern houses were often terrified, and Southron lords tended not to visit at all, avoiding the wild North and its ‘savagery’ ( _not entirely inaccurate sometimes,_ she thought) when they could. It was for the Starks to travel about their realm, to White Harbour, to the Dreadfort, to Deepwood Motte, to Last Hearth, even to the Wall (though Alys did not remember, being only two at the time), ascertaining the needs of their people. This was not to say that lords did not visit, but it was less frequent that the Starks had visitors than it was for the other great houses of the South. Alys relished such trips, for they allowed her to meet new people, to make new friends, something she loved more than nearly anything else. Unfortunately, she could not bring any home with her, and had been begging mother to allow another noble child to be fostered there, but to no avail. So, she’d made friends of the servants of the house, Jory among them. Mother had expressed her displeasure at this, yet made, as usual, no move to stop her.

Alys soon became distracted and lost through Rhaegal’s eyes. Flying was the most wonderful thing she’d ever experienced, and she’d known that even before she had been awake to really experience it. Now, Alys relished the wind rushing by, the height, the power, the sheer thrill of moving so swiftly. Flying in the waking hours was so much better than the dreaming. Now she wanted to do it, to truly fly, upon a dragon’s back.           

OOOO

_Higher and higher they flew. She and the girl-who-saw-through-her-eyes rose ever farther above the plains, soaring until the world was small and distant. For hours they flew together._

_Hunger, though, called for both. She dove quickly towards the forest far below her, knowing it to be teeming with game. Closer and closer the treetops became, until they were only feet away, but she opened her wings wide just before impact. A few more wingbeats later she cruised easily above the trees, sweeping the forest floor for deer and elk. Soon, a large elk came into focus none too far away, and she reoriented her flight path towards the prey._

_The elk heard her wings beating, bounding off for the woods moments before the catch. This did nothing to stop a dragon, however, for they had weapons beyond the tooth and the claw. A blast of fire erupted from her mouth, scorching the nearby trees and likely killing anything on the forest floor. She turned herself around for another flyby, seeking to spot the elk. It had, in fact, been killed, and she dove in close enough to pick it up off the ground and carry it away._

_As the delicious taste of burned flesh touched her tongue, she felt the girl slipping away for a meal of her own._

 

OOOO

 

The scent of meat, cooked less thoroughly than the elk she’d just tasted, was what brought her to. Leaning up she saw a tray of food placed on her table. Lying on her bed, it must have seemed to them that she was sleeping, so the servant had probably decided not to wake her. Quite famished by now, she went to her meal, brown bread and eggs with a potato on the side, and devoured it with rapid efficiency. 

Once finished though she found the room still quiet, in need of something to fill the noiselessness, and with no books on dragons remaining unread she decided that she should try for something else. After some searching she found a tome she had not read in ages: _The Crisis in the Vale._ It told the story of how her father had come to the aid of Lady Gwen Hunter when her own cousin Jorah Hunter had challenged her right to rule, on the grounds that his maleness gave him the stronger claim, then even tried to overthrow her. Her father, Daeron Targaryen, the younger brother to King Aemon, had been sent on the King’s behalf to resolve the crisis in favour of Lady Gwen.

Daeron had, in fact, ended the war, but he’d done so by burning the lords who opposed Lady Gwen alive on the mountainside from dragonback. They had been, and remained to this day, very wroth, and when he’d summoned the heirs of those lords to the Eyrie so as to dictate terms to them they had waited until he was asleep to stab him to death. No one found out ‘til morning, and no one knew who was responsible: any one of half a dozen new lords had had reason to want him dead, but none claimed responsibility. They had all, though, decided that he was to be known forever as Daeron the Damned, for having done the King’s Justice on their rebellious fathers. The name had stuck, especially among more conservative-minded lords in the South. Northerners had for most of a century supported the full right of women to inherit; even her mother, the most powerful woman in the North and possibly Westeros, had come to power through just such a tradition. The moniker given to her father was not used here, but history books still told of it.

And that was how her father had died: alone in his sleep. She’d never known him though; he’d died alone while she was being born a thousand miles to the north. Mother never spoke of him; what little she knew of her sire came from such history books as she was then reading. It made her sad, this story, angry too, but she never had really felt the grief of losing a parent. Having never known him meant there wasn't the same hole to fill as there might be, had she actually lost a father she'd known. She’d always wondered what a father might be like though. Brandon had done for her much of what might be expected of a father, but he was a brother; it just wasn’t the same.

After a while reading, there came a gentle rapping at her door. She put down her book and moved to answer. “Yes?” she asked whoever stood without.

“You can come out now Alys,” said Brandon’s voice. “We haven’t seen the dragon for a few hours. You should be fine to wander the castle, but please don’t go outside. You had mother and I very worried this morning.”

“Alright, I won’t. Is there food in the Hall?” she asked, hungrily. The meal they’d sent had been a while ago, and Alys was always hungry.

“Not yet,” he said with a brief chuckle. He knew her priorities. “But there will be soon. I’ll see you there, sister.”

“See you there.” Escape! Excellent. No being stuck in one room the whole day for her.

She moved promptly, folding her nightgown for the washer and pulling out a neatly-folded dress from her drawer and donning it with care. She didn’t bother with stockings or shoes; she rarely ever wore either indoors, and Winterfell was warm enough even in winter to allow it. On silent bare feet she ran through the hall and corridors of the castle towards her family and food.

When she arrived, the wonderful smells of cooking bacon and hot pastries greeted her like old friends, warm it their embrace. She took in a deep breath of that lovely scent before sitting down in her customary seat next to Brandon’s, who, unfortunately, was not sitting down, and rather preoccupied with talking to their captain-of-the-guard, Markus Rawley. Mother was nowhere to be seen, likely similarly engaged. Not for long, however. She appeared only a few moments later, several sentries in tow. On the approach she sent them off, and they left with a salute. The whole atmosphere of the room, despite the wonderful scents, was extremely tense and uncertain. Alys felt the tension, but could not share it, for source of their anxiety held no fear for her, it only being a dragon, but the uncertainty drove itself in like wedge.

As mother and Brandon moved to sit down, they both noticed the look of uncertainty on Alys’ face, and tried to acknowledge her concerns.

“No one’s seen the dragon since this morning,” said mother. “We don’t know where it is, exactly, but it’s certainly not here.” _It’s in the Wolfswood, mother._

“We think that it should be fine if you move around the castle, but please Alys, stay within the walls of Winterfell. We all know how much you like to sneak out, but this is serious,” said Brandon.

“I know, Brandon. I won’t, I promise,” she replied. But it was indeed very tempting.

Brandon started to speak again, but the food was brought in just then. Plates of bacon and egg with steaming buns, bread rolls, and bits of toast were carried by several servants and laid before the Starks. Alysane dug in almost immediately, though paused long enough to say thank you to the servers, several she knew as friends. Mother and Brandon both nodded in recognition, but had never been close to the household in an anything but professional capacity.

“How are you doing?” Brandon asked her.

Alys smiled. “I’m good. I think I’ll go to the yards in a while.” She actually did feel fairly good, considering the circumstances. She also wanted to see Sansa, who was out in the kennels where she often slept.

“That’s good to hear,” said her mother. “Will you be joining us for supper?”

“I think so. I may be in the library.” She tended to take supper there, for it was often more productive than sitting with her family while they talked about wedding plans that she cared so little for.

“Hmm. I hope you join us. I’d like to keep you close, daughter of mine,” said Mother. “And do comb your hair, it looks a fright.”  


	4. Rhaella I

With a final tug, Rhaella’s bindings fell away, and she let loose a deep sigh of relief. This whole journey of two weeks now, her breasts had ached, though now they were almost as they had been before her daughter Naerys was born. She’d had to leave her in the middle of nursing on this wild dragon-of-a-goose-chase. She’d no opportunity before setting off to allow herself to dry up.

But there really wasn’t much she could have done. Father was sick. Three of her four younger siblings weren’t in the capitol, and neither were her uncle, or any of her aunts, or dragonriding cousins, and so she and Rhaenys were the only ones who could do this. They could have waited for others before departing, but no one wanted a dragon loose in the countryside, so when Rhaegal had disappeared they’d needed to go after her without any delay. And she’d had to leave her  _daughter_ with the damn wetnurse.

Rhaenys shouldn’t even be here. But Targaryens always travelled in threes- the dragon must have three heads, after all. So while Rhaella and her Kingsguard cousin Daemon Whitewater could have flown out on their own, they’d needed a third, and Rhaenys was the only other hale dragonrider in the capitol when Rhaella had needed to leave. So here she was. Rhaella still had reservations about taking a fourteen-year-old girl on such a dangerous mission, though her youngest sister had actually handled herself better on a long journey than Rhaella had. It was really quite surprising how well she did, and Rhaella became more confident that she be capable of dealing with such journeys in the future.

She had, for example, somewhere along the way learned to make fires. She was doing so now as Rhaella watched. Striking two rocks together onto dry twigs and a bit of oil cloth, and then a flame is born. Both sisters loved fire, watching fire burn through things, feeling the heat- it was an unhealthy trait of their family, that fascination. It gave the world wildfire, created King Aerys the Mad, burned cities and brought to Westeros dragons and the terrible power her family had always, to one degree of success or another, attempted to employ to maintain their own power. Slowly, as Rhaella gazed intently at it, the fire grew under her sister’s tutelage.

Rhaenys soon started adding larger and larger pieces to the pile, and within a minute or two Rhaella started to actually feel warm. They had come to the snowy North, a place she had never before visited, and did not again hope to. The cold was difficult, for she was truly born to heat- her wardrobe was one of thin and flowing silks, of revealing gowns, of slitted trousers and loose-fitting tunics, not thick furs and cloaks that were necessary here. The cold bore into her, and so did the snow, which was rather like ice water, but solid and so pervasive that it got into every nook and cranny before it melted and then just sat there freezing you. It was wonderful until experienced first-hand, she thought.

The dragon had been headed nearly due north for more than two weeks straight. It had brought them to this frozen riverbank for no reason they could discern, as it had continued to do on its long and strangely direct journey north. Dragons did not follow straight lines when hunting; something must have been pulling Rhaegal. Rhaella could not think, just yet, of anything that made sense. Well, unless…

“Rhaenys?” she asked.

“Yes?” answered her sister.

“Pray tell, where, exactly, are we?”

“A few miles south of Castle Cerwyn,” she said. “We’re camping along the White Knife, and we’ll just follow its western tributary until we find it. Shouldn’t be too long now.”

“Do you think the dragon could have gone to Winterfell?”

“It looks to be headed that w-” Rhaenys stopped midspeech, her head tilting up from the fire to look Rhaella in the eye. “You don’t mean the Stark children, do you?”

“I think they might be involved, though likely not intentionally.” Rhaenys looked at her sister wide-eyed. “They are our cousins after all, and you know what our family is like with dragons. And the Starks are skinchangers, same as us, but stronger even. It’s not just possible, but likely.”

Rhaenys nodded silently. After a minute of two, she asked “Do you think it’s going to be Alysane?”

“What?”

“Whoever called the dragons, do you think it was Alysane?”

“Well, I imagine it might be, but remember that Brandon is her older brother and of the same blood. It may well be him.”

Rhaenys said nothing, returning to her fire. Since Edric, the younger of the Stark brothers, had come to the capitol half a year ago with his new wife’s family, he’d been regaling Rhaenys with stories of his wild little sister, Alysane. Rhaenys had paid close attention to all of them, loving nothing more than hearing about a girl – a noblewoman, and a cousin no less – as wild as she. Alysane, from what Rhaella had heard, sounded like trouble – worse than her sister even. Rhaella had nought but sympathy for women with spirit. She had grown up in a family of the intelligent and strong-willed, and was the eldest of three such sisters. But the women of court were careful and calculating, knowing when it was time to be calm and falsely pleasant. Even Rhaenys knew when to be quiet, though she preferred simply to disappear from the room when courtiers were about. But Alysane Stark might prove unpredictable, and bringing such a child to court would not be wise. She hoped that either Alysane had a decent head on her shoulders, or that it was not her who had called their dragon.

Her thoughts were interrupted soon by the return of Ser Daemon, who had been flying around their heads to spot any plausible threats. Two princesses, one the heir of his King, were an important charge, and he had not wanted to risk not looking before eating and resting. With a thud, his great white dragon, Gygax, landed, and the Ser slid off his back. He was a tall, thickly built man with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a powerful jaw; he struck an impressive image when he met strangers, an image that the family helped to cultivate by making him the typical personal escort to travelling Princes and Princesses. This was mostly a practical matter, however, since he was the only one of the seven Kingsguard who could ride a dragon, so when they went somewhere uncertain it almost always fell to him to serve as guard or escort.

“Anything we need to watch out for?” asked Rhaenys. She, of her five siblings, multifarious cousins, and other relations, had always been the closest personally to their cousin. He was to her very much as an older might be to another. He was, at the very least, closer to her than were either of her actual brothers.

“Nothing I could find.” He strode swiftly towards the fire, reaching his hands to the heat. He nodded to Rhaella, a tacit show of deference.

“We think our dragon may have gone to Winterfell,” Rhaella announced, once he’d been given a chance to warm his hands.

“Why? What would it want there?”

“Our cousins, the Starks, most likely.”

He gave her a confused look, but said nothing, so she continued. “They are the children of our uncle Daeron, who was a skinchanger like most of our family. We know our good-aunt Lyarra isn’t, but Brandon and Alysane both could have called Rhaegal the way we all do our own.”

He nodded in understanding, then seemed to withdraw once again into the fire. Rhaella said no more. After a minute or two of silence, with no company of sound but the river, she found her stomach growling unhappily at her, and decided to get out the food for the evening. It was stored in her dragon’s saddlebag. Drogon was a titanic black and red beast, easily the largest dragon of the age. His neck was thicker than she was tall by more than a foot at its narrowest, and his saddlebag carried nearly a full wagon load. He laid on the ground, snoring softly, a thin black trail of smoke drifting lazily from his enormous nostrils.

Their meal consisted of salt pork, stale biscuits, cheese, and some tart berries they’d found near their camp a couple of days ago. A real feast fit for a king. Rhaella put their salt pork in a pan over the fire to heat, and started to nibble a biscuit in the meantime. Once, it had been a light brown, but was now distinctively grey. It might have been better thought of though as a piece of none-too-particularly soft wood rather than a biscuit, and had all the flavour of a singularly savoury rock.  _It could have used some gravy,_  she thought,  _and perhaps a couple decent swings of a hammer._

The salt pork, served once hot by Rhaenys to the others in silence, proved little better. She liked pork, especially bacon, and this pig might have been delicious once, but was by now rather leather-like. Chewing it proved every bit the challenge it had every night previous for the last two weeks. Some mutton might be nice, or even just some wine to wash it down. Alas, they’d brought none.

And Rhaenys, had, of course, never once complained. Rhaella hadn’t truly expected her to, but it was still strange. At court, Rhaenys, at least in private, often complained of the unfairness of things. One might think that she would complain of being dragged out into the wilderness and cold, but she seemed to relish it. The food, Rhaella’s greatest grip, didn’t bother her in the least.

Looking at her now, one might think she and Rhaella to be twins, despite the seven years (to the day) gap between their births. They had the same fiery red hair from their mother, purple eyes and angular faces of their father, and height from both, though Rhaella being older stood a couple of inches taller. Mother and Father often said Rhaenys was the image of her sister at the same age, and Rhaella could believe it, even if she didn’t remember looking so stretched, or so lean, as her sister did.

In temperament, they were as night and day, however. Rhaella was ever the proper and courteous one, knowing how to behave in court nearly by instinct, and accepting duty without reservation, and intelligent enough to know what was her duty before she had to be told. In short, just the heir father had always wanted for his throne. Rhaenys was naturally independent, curious, defiant, and resistant to anyone who told her she had to behave like a lady. She emulated her namesake, the original Rhaenys who was the sister of Aegon the Conqueror, and that of their middle sister, Queen Visenya, as well as Baelor’s Queen Daena the Defiant, learning to fight with swords and bows and refusing a gown at any opportunity. She avoided appearances at court, preferring to spend such time on dragonback or exploring the secret passages of the Red Keep. And, now, apparently, learning survival skills such as starting fires. The only passion the two truly shared was a love of books and stories, and both spent much time in the library. A childhood sent in the Red Keep had also taught both of them the value of a quiet moment alone, and the library afforded this like nothing else, not even their chambers.

When their meal was finished, Daemon rose, and said “We’ll need to put out the fire out for the night,” in his usual abruptness. He went to the river with a bucket, came back with ice water, doused their fire, and that was their night.

At the very least, it was plenty warm enough leaning up against Drogon for Rhaella to get a decent night’s sleep.

 

\----

 

Castle Cerwyn, when the party arrived the following day, was sent into a flurry of activity. The dragons landed outside the gates, for the courtyard was not big enough to accommodate them all. Even Drogon alone might have been a tight fit. Cerwyn wasn’t a large place: a square-walled castle, made of a composite of dark brown wood and rough-hewn grey stone, bare of decoration, as were most Northern castles.  _Not an unpleasant place,_ thought Rhaella.  _If only it were warmer up here in the North. It’s sure to be cold, but perhaps not so barren on the inside as to be as grim as the Dreadfort is said to be._

It hadn’t been hard to find from dragonback. Anything that wasn’t sheep or the grass that fed them stuck out as might islands in the sea in the vast open plains of the North. Rhaella was moderately surprised with how unprepared they were down below, since she should have been visible for miles, but nevertheless there seemed to be good deal of panic in the yards. She gave a hand signal her companions to circle back around once before landing.

The morning of their coming was a dull grey, a few shades lighter than the previous week’s skies. Rhaella had woken to find more damn snow had fallen during the night, but it wasn’t as heavy as she’d heard it could be. Besides, Drogon’s heat had done marvelously and kept her fairly dry even through the night’s snowfall. The sun looked, she thought, vaguely as if it was considering putting in an appearance later on, but she wasn’t holding her breath for it.

With their final circle, the three slowed and prepared to land. Drogon’s wings gave two mighty flaps as they approached the ground, then stopped for a short glide, gave one more powerful flap followed by a moment of weightlessness, and finally a jolt as his massive bulk hit the ground like a great black mountain.

Sliding off his massive back carefully, then taking a moment composing her self for presentation, Rhaella turned to the castle. She could hear a good deal of shouting from inside. The gate sat closed, but as she watched was slowly raised. Several frightened-looking guardsmen rushed out and knelt for the royal visitors. She bid them rise, and went as the front of the three as they were led inside.

They found, in the courtyard, a distinctively Northern-looking man in rich furs, and a brown-haired woman in a cloak and gown: Lord Rys Cerwyn, and his wife Lady Serra Royce, whom Rhaella knew from her time as lady-in-waiting to her mother. Both knelt, along with all the guardsmen in the yard.

“Rise,” said Rhaella. All did, and Lady Serra smiled at her.

“Welcome to Castle Cerwyn, Your Grace. My house is yours,” said Lord Rys. She nodded to him.

Turning to his lady, she smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you again, Serra.”

“And you, Rhaella,” replied the lady, though with a slight edge of nervousness. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Less than welcome circumstances, unfortunately. May we discuss this inside?”

“Certainly,” said Lord Rys.

The indoors of the castle proved to be nearly but not so completely as unadorned as the outside, with only the occasional tapestry and a few portraits hung as decoration. It wasn’t as cold as Rhaella’d expected, but still colder by far than was her preference. She’d married a man from one of the hottest parts of Westeros for a reason. All in all, every bit as reasonable as she’d thought, every bit as not unpleasant.

The Lord and Lady directed the three guests in tense silence to a roomy, octagonal chamber with a lit fireplace off to one side. There sat a desk piled with papers and several pens and bottles of ink, which meant this was likely the solar. An elderly maester sat at the desk, and when the door opened he jumped, nearly falling off his seat. Shaking, he gave a bow.

“May we have the solar, Lyle?” asked Rys.

“Yes, Ser, My lord, Your Graces.” Maester Lyle moved to depart, but Rhaella stopped him short of the door.

“Stay, if you would. We may have need of you to write letters before all is done,” she said to him quietly.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. Now, if we may begin…”

“Yes, please. Is, ah, is this about the dragon our sentries saw come by a few days ago?” asked Serra tentatively.

This was excellent news. That the dragon had come past here only helped them find it, and furthered Rhaella’s suspicions regarding its whereabouts, or destination at the very least. “Yes, it is. We’re trying to find her. Do you know where she was going?”

“Our sentries say it was headed north, to Winterfell,” said Lord Rys. “We’ve no word from there, though, and we feared…”

“Don’t worry, My Lord. Dragons alone aren’t prone to that,” said Rhaella. She knew that it was hardly reassuring, but she had to try. “How long ago did you see it? And have you seen it since?”

“About eight days ago, and no, we haven’t,” said the lord.

“We must depart for Winterfell in a couple of hours, then. I’m sorry, Serra, I wish I could visit for longer, but we haven’t the time.”

Serra smiled sadly. “Well, we can still talk while you’re here. And of course you’ll be wanting food, and baths after coming all the way from the capitol.”

“Those would both be lovely, yes, thank you.” Rhaella had been craving a nice hot bath for a long while, and a hot fresh meal would have done more for her right then than just about anything else.

 

\----

 

The bath truly did the trick. Rhaella had sat in the tub until it was too cold to stand, and by the end felt more relaxed than she had since having her daughter more than six months ago. Old friends, hot food and a clean body made for more comfort than she could have imagined only hours ago. Her life had been so full of  _events_ this last year or so since early in her pregnancy that she’d barely had the time to not think. It felt freeing in a way she’d nearly forgotten.

But alas, good things could not last forever. Once Rhaella and her companions had finished their meal, it was time to make for Winterfell. She wanted to be there by sunset, giving them somewhat less than two-and-a-half hours, and Cerwyn was by Daemon’s reckoning about an hour and a half from Winterfell by dragon. They would need to depart soon.

She said her goodbyes, thanked her guests, and left the courtyard for Drogon. Once outside the castle, she closed her eyes, allowing her mind to find his, and calling him back from the hunt. She could feel that he’d been successful, and his immense hunger sated for a time. He was, after a couple of minutes, the last of the three companions’ dragons to return. He’d evidently ranged farther from Cerwyn than the others.

Nevertheless, they got underway shortly. While in the air, Rhaella began to reflect on what the consequences of bringing either of the two Stark children to court might be. If it were Brandon, would father have to disinherit him? He was the heir apparent to Winterfell, and the King couldn’t well have an independent Lord Paramount of the North as a dragonrider. That would be far too dangerous. And if it were Alysane, as Rhaenys hoped, then they would be too early tearing a girl of fourteen away from her family against both their wills. Lady Lyarra had yet to even find a match for her, which would mean some Southerner would well try to marry her when she’s at court without her mother’s consent, or perhaps Father might try to arrange a match for her himself.

Either way, the results were not happy, though Brandon would present a far greater question and likely set an unfortunate and probably very unpopular precedent. For the King to unilaterally disinherit a future Lord Paramount – his own nephew, no less – well, it would not be received lightly by the realm at large. While Alysane coming to court would probably be unhappy for her and possibly others, it would mean far less for the greater politics of the realm, and for Rhaella’s own future as Queen. And Alysane would at least get to see her brother Edric again. He wrote and received letters to and from her with frequency, and considering how often he spoke of his little sister Rhaella believed them quite close. Perhaps there might be happy moments for the girl.

As she pondered things, she heard a shout from her right. Daemon, ever sharp-eyed, had spotted a point off in the distance, which looked to be made of grey stone. In the middle of such a plains as the North, it could only be a castle, and there was only one castle anywhere near them by then: Winterfell. As the three approached the grey point, it turned out indeed to be the seat of House Stark.

It was said by many that you never forget your first good look at Winterfell, and Rhaella understood now really what they meant when they said it. She had lived her childhood and most of her life in the Red Keep, one of the greatest castles in Westeros, and had spent time in Casterly Rock, the Hightower, Harrenhal, Highgarden, Storm’s End, the Eyrie, and beyond, all the largest and strongest castles of the south, yet none of them prepared her for Winterfell. It had two sets of massive grey-black walls of thick stone, surrounding a great deal more space than most castles possessed inside. Open courtyards separated different halls and towers of the castle, of which some were of stone and some wood. A third inner wall surrounded a smaller space, which, Rhaella saw, was several acres of green: a godswood the size of a real forest. It wasn’t as vast as Harrenhal’s monstrous godswood, yet somehow remained different, somehow greater, even seen from the air. The whole castle stood like a mountain, not so much a man-made construct as a feature of the landscape. Its presence could be best understood the same way one might understand the presence of a hill or river or island: something simply  _there._

Importantly, no damage had been done to it, so Rhaegal had probably come without the intent of destruction, much as Rhaella had expected.

They made before landing a long, looping circle around the mighty castle. Upon their landing they were greeted by a group of guards already at attention came out to greet the visitors, kneeling with care as they landed and slid from their mounts.

As Rhaella, Rhaenys, and Daemon passed in side the guards quickly set about raising the gate and drawbridge, as if expecting more trouble. They might well be. In the main courtyards, there stood a brown-haired woman in lovely furs next to several guards and a very tall man who looked just like her.  _Lyarra and her son Brandon,_ thought Rhaella. However, there was not a young Stark-featured girl in evidence anywhere.  _And where is Alysane?_

Both the present Starks looked around nervously, possibly for the wayward girl, before kneeling. Rhaella looked to her companions, both of whom had noticed her absence as well, before allowing the Starks to stand.

“Your Grace, Winterfell is at your disposal,” said Lady Lyarra.

Rhaella nodded, then smiled. “How long has it been, Aunt Lya? Eight years, nine?”

“Nearly ten. You’ve grown so much, Rhaella, since I last saw you. And Rhaenys, I scarcely recognise you. You were but a babe when we met last, toddling after your siblings but curious like no other. And Ser Daemon, I presume. I’ve heard much about you,” replied her aunt. “Please excuse my daughter, by the way. Your coming was unexpected, but she should be here shortly.” There was a certain distinctly audible tone of  _I hope_ to her statement.

Rhaella thought about this. A lady who did not bother to show up for royal guests on dragons. Yes, Rhaenys would most certainly like this Alysane Stark.


	5. Rhaella II, Alysane IV

Alysane did not too long tarry in presenting herself. She came running, almost stumbling, barefoot, out into the courtyard right as Rhaella was beginning to find herself truly bemused and Lyarra starting to seem genuinely worried. She came covered in sweat and wearing leather from neck to ankle, and looked rather as if she’d just come from the training yards, which knowing what Rhaella did about the girl didn’t seem all that unlikely.

She looked very much like a Stark, but one familiar with the royal family would see immediately that Alysane was indeed a part of it: she had the curly dark brown hair, pale skin, and smattering of freckles characteristic of her mother’s family, but her face was slender and angular in a way that her Mother’s was not. She had too the purple eyes of the Targaryens, where even her brothers, Prince Daeron’s other children, did not. They were large and intense in a way most people’s eyes weren’t, and combined with the curled hair sticking to her face hers lent her a particularly wild look. She had inherited too just like her cousins a height unusual for women, rivalling that of Rhaenys and Rhaella herself and easily surpassing her mother.

Her body was, however, not as mature as Rhaenys’, who already had easily filled out her adult curves by the age of fourteen. She looked so lean one might think her a little underfed, however it was more a look of having been stretched several inches vertically in the last couple of years than one of having nothing on one’s bones. Though it was most certainly there and probably coming like a storm, Alysane Stark’s adult body was not here yet: her current one more resembled a younger girl’s, lacking the full breasts and round hips and rump of a woman grown.

When the Stark girl noticed why she’d been summoned, a look of surprise shot across her face and she fell to her knees somewhat clumsily. Rhaella looked to her little sister, who was grinning broadly, and couldn’t help but giggle a little. Yes, they’re going to be perfect for one another. _May the gods have mercy on us all._

“You must be Alysane,” said Rhaella. “Your brother’s told me much of you.”

Lyarra was perfectly scandalised. She could not have looked more so if her daughter had simply appeared before her royal cousins naked. But Rhaella didn’t care. She laughed, a little more this time. “Rise, cousin. You’ve done no offence.”

Alysane rose quickly, but with a grace than she’d not shown on the way down, almost like a dancer’s. Her face betrayed a look of momentary relief, and then a level of understandable uncertainty. Rhaella simply smiled and nodded, and Alysane’s face showed relief once again.

“Rhaella, I’m honoured that you’ve come all this way, but may I know to what I do owe this honour? Would it perhaps be the dragon?” So Rhaegal had shown up here as well. Her hypothesis grew more credible by the moment.

“Yes, it would indeed, though I would prefer to speak of it indoors,” said the Princess.

“Oh! Of course, follow me. You too Alys,” said Lyarra. Alysane’s highly expressive features turned to a kind of concerned disappointment, yet she followed as her mother had bid her.

 

OOOO

 

Alysane did not know what would happen to her. The Princess was obviously here to retrieve the dragon, yet she didn’t know, couldn’t know that Alys had brought it here. Could she?

She and her mother and brother led the Princess (Rhaella, her eldest cousin by her kingly Uncle Aemon, she remembered. They’d never met formally, but Alys had seen her at Edric’s wedding) in silence through the courtyards and hall of Winterfell, until they came to the Great Keep, where the Starks lived and governed.

“Alysane, please go to your rooms, or the yards. The Princess and I have business to conduct,” said Mother. “If it’s amenable to you, Rhaella, I would like Brandon privy to the government of Winterfell, and think it best he joins us.”

“Actually, our business concerns them both. Alysane should stay as well,” said Rhaella. _Oh dear. This can’t be good. Is she on to me? Does she know that I brought Rhaegal here? What if she thinks it’s Brandon?_ Mother obviously saw this to be the case, and she cast nervous looks to Alys and Brandon in turn. She simply nodded before leading the visitors. The group continued on towards mother’s solar.

While they walked, Alysane looked more now to the other two Rhaella had brought with her. One was a very tall blonde-haired man wearing the all-white clothing of a Kingsguard knight and brandishing a sword at his hip. Alys knew the Kingsguard well, despite having never met in person any of the knights who comprised it, and there was only one man in recent history to ride a dragon and wear a white cloak. This must have been Ser Daemon Whitewater, the bastard son of the late King Arthur, the first of Alysane’s two uncles, and Aemon’s elder brother and predecessor.

He’d spent most of his life unaware of his parentage, living in his youth as a hedge knight, and being revealed to the world after a tourney. Aemon had offered him a place in service of the Royal family, and Daemon had accepted. After a couple of years in faithful and capable service, a position on the Kingsguard had opened, and Aemon had offered it to him, along with legitimisation and a name of his own. Daemon had accepted, and chosen the name Whitewater in reference to his bastard’s surname, Waters, and the white of the Kingsguard cloak and armour. Once on the guards, he had shown an affinity for dragons, and been allowed to ride one, a white-scaled creature named Gygax.

The other companion proved more enigmatic. She was tall by any standards, much as was Rhaella, and the alikeness of their features – red hair, similar body shapes, angular faces not unlike Alys’ own, and purple eyes that may as well have been hers – suggested that the third was likely one of Rhaella’s sisters, Rhaenys or Visenya. She wasn’t certain.

They eventually reached the solar after what seemed both a moment and a millennium in one. It was a roomy, welcoming place, with a large oaken chair sat behind a desk of warm mahogany. The desk was as Mother preferred it lathered in papers but neatly arranged for convenience’s sake. Several more chairs of simpler make were positioned in a circle behind the oaken throne for meetings, and as mother took the great chair as her seat and turned it into the meeting circle the other five followed, taking the other chairs.

Mother spoke first, and with an authority Alys rarely heard her use. “It’s time then we knew. Why have you brought my children here with us?”

Rhaella took a moment, as if considering her words. “About three weeks ago, it came to our attention that Rhaegal, the dragon who’s – if I may take a guess – been circling your castle since she arrived, went missing from Dragonstone. There, they are allowed to roam, hunting and fishing as they please, but Rhaegal did not come back after an excursion. Dragons are unpredictable, often, but are on the whole creatures of habit- it is in their nature to have a nesting site and ultimately stay grounded there. Rhaegal’s behaviour is unusual of a dragon, and it didn’t take us very long to figure that something had gone wrong. So, Ser Daemon, my sister Rhaenys, and myself, being the only dragonriders in the capital at the time, were forced to find it. The last thing anyone wants is a dragon loose on the countryside.”

Mother shivered at her words. Though she never spoke of her husband, Alys knew Prince Daeron had been a dragonrider much as the rest of his family. She probably knew what dragons could do to those who opposed them, or their riders.

Rhaella waited a moment for that to sink in. “We followed its trail, which led with a slight meandering essentially straight here. This also unusual for dragons- they aren’t generally mission-driven, and typically don’t follow any particular path while hunting. We believe it to be searching for something, and the only thing we’ve ever seen a dragon search for as such is a rider. Specifically, a rider who can skinchange, and bond with the dragon directly. Only a few members of either of our family can do this, and it is our belief that one among your own family has this capacity. We believe it unlikely that it is yourself, Aunt Lya, since you would by now have known what was happening, and evidently do not. Therefore, we have reason to believe that Rhaegal has been called here by one of your children, and we have simply to find out which.” With those last words, Rhaella turned to the chairs where Brandon and Alys sat side by side.

Every word that had come out of the Princess’s mouth brought another wave of fear coursing through Alys. She knew certainly now what she’d believed the case from the beginning of this mess- that she had unwittingly called Rhaegal to her, and that it meant a disruption of national – epic – scale, both to her life and to her family’s.

Even as she thought though she became gradually aware that Brandon was staring at her. She turned to him, looking him in his shadowy grey eyes. Out of the corner of her vision, it became apparent that he was not the only one transfixed: all the party was. Everyone was staring at her, each with a different expression and reaction.

They’d found her. They knew that she’d called the dragon. _  
_

 


	6. Alysane V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have asked, and might want to know, this chapter contains a more detailed explanation of the Targaryen/Stark family tree than has been previously presented. 
> 
> "Comments are how you pay a fanfic author. Feedback is worth it's weight in gold."  
> \- AyYouFiction

Fear began to creep in upon her. It felt like wearing wet clothes in the harshest winter air, with cold seeping in slowly from all sides, her skin gradually numbing. Alysane would have preferred to have crawled into a shell than sit so exposed to her family, and to her Royal cousins.

There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to flee.

Everyone in the room was fixated upon her, each with a different expression, each just as unnerving as the last. Mother had a look of worry, the concern of a parent radiating from her like heat from a flame. Rhaella observed her with a hint of curiosity, but otherwise a worryingly unreadable expression crossed her face. Ser Daemon looked as if without any feeling, his thoughts unknowable. Rhaenys was watching wide-eyed, and smiling happily, but Alys could find no joy in the present and for some reason it didn’t reassure her that Rhaenys did. And finally, Brandon, who looked to be more than anything utterly lost, his countenance rife with fear, concern, worry, confusion, and more even that Alysane could not parse.

The first to break their stare was Rhaella, who turned her head slightly, becoming withdrawn and contemplative, leaning forward to rest her chin on her fist. Rhaenys came after, still smiling, and looked back a few times before turning in on her own thoughts. Ser Daemon started looking to the others, as if analysing their reactions, but remained largely unreadable. Mother turned her head but didn’t change expression even slightly. Brandon didn’t stop for the longest while.

“Lady Stark? May I have a word in private?” asked Rhaella eventually, with a formal and authoritative tone entirely unlike the familiar one of before.

Mother simply nodded. “Brandon, please take whatever other duties I may have had for today. Alysane, please go to your chambers. We’ll call for you soon.”

Alys, now finally free, bolted from the room with a suddenness even she herself had not expected and ran to her chambers post-haste. On the way, she remembered, somehow, that she’d forgotten all her courtesies, or, in fact, even spoken a single word to her family’s guests. Guests who were family, at that. In any other time mother would not likely be particularly pleased, especially considering how she’d behaved earlier in the courtyard, but today the thought of such small things mattering at all felt ludicrous.

Her rooms felt altogether colder than they should. A kind of stillness permeated the chamber, something rather like the calm before the storm. Uncertainty in turn permeated Alys. She slowly sat down on her bed, moving almost not at all once there. Too much weighed on her for anything but thinking.

They knew she had called the dragon- something she’d not even tried to do, and hadn’t even been certain it was her doing until after the dragon got there. Mother knew, Brandon knew- everyone would know soon. It’s not as if they wouldn’t have figured it out sooner or later anyways. A dragon, showing itself suddenly at the home of two children of a Targaryen prince? Even Mother would have seen it soon enough. But what would happen now? Would they take Rhaegal home? Could they even do that, when Alys could simply bring Rhaegal back with a thought?

Or would they bring her south when they left?

This seemed to her the most likely option. She knew that the King wouldn’t allow anyone not directly sworn to him ride a dragon, but no one had said anything about controlling one without riding, the way that she had. Practice over the last week or so had shown her that Rhaegal responded beautifully to her desires when their minds were bonded. Was it like this for any of the Targaryen dragonriders? She didn’t know.

Thinking of the Targaryen’s Dragonriders, she realised that House Targaryen had, only minutes ago, taken on a dimension it had never possessed to Alys before- a real, flesh-and-blood one. She rarely ever thought of her father’s family, since Father had died before she was even born, and since none of her relatives ever visited the North, and her own family did not speak much of them, especially not Mother, she’d never a cause to think of the Targaryens as much more than history.

Now, though, they were real, and demanding of her attention (and possibly her fate). Alys tried, racking her brains, to remember what her father’s family looked like, who’d been who and who’d done what. Her grandfather, King Eddard Targaryen, had had six children by his Queen Laena Velaryon, the eldest of whom became King Arthur. Arthur had had no legitimate children, but so many bastards they were now becoming a real problem. One of the eldest of his known children was Ser Daemon. Arthur had died in the Stepstones War around the time Alys’ parents had married, in a match the King himself arranged. He was succeeded, as decreed by the Great Council of 380 AC, by his brother Aemon, Eddard’s second child, who had been training at the citadel to become a Maester, but had not yet taken his vows. Aemon was hastily married to Alyssa Tully, and together they’d had five children of whom Rhaella and Rhaenys were the eldest and youngest. Daeron, the third child, had been married to her mother, Lyarra Stark, and Alysane, Brandon, and Edric had been born to him before his untimely death. After that, Alysane’s knowledge of the family’s three youngest, the daughters of Eddard, was spotty and uncertain. She knew that the eldest of the daughters, Elia, had married one of her brother Arthur’s childhood friends and first cousin Vyman Velaryon, and that she’d died only weeks ago. One of the others married a knight from Oldtown, and the other some Riverlord’s son.

This made for a bewildering profusion of cousins that Alys, who was possessed a curious difficulty when it came to new names and faces despite her gregarious nature, would likely have a devil of a time trying to keep track of. Arthur had three recognised and legitimised bastard children but probably over a dozen yet to be discovered, Aemon had five and Rhaella was recently a mother of one, and all three of the sisters probably had a couple three children of their own. By Alys’ count, her extended family including her own Starks consisted of near twenty cousins. And she herself had more from the minor offshoot branch of the Starks from Huntsman’s Keep, not far to the west of Winterfell, the House of her grandfather Jon. Sometimes it was all too much.

But maybe so many relations would be good for her. If Alys had to go south, she would be away from the family she knew, but not away from family altogether. Besides, Edric was south, in the capital even, so she would have at the very least one familiar face (or rather two, for Edric would have his direwolf Meraxes with him).

All that, if, of course, she was forced to go south. They might not do that, even if it seemed very probable, though the apparent likelihood of such a voyage might be related to her desire to see her brother again. She’d missed him more than she’d ever missed anything or anyone else, and would gladly have made the journey herself in better circumstances if only to see him again. But perhaps she would be allowed to stay.

Evidently sensing her conflict, Sansa, who’d been lying off to one corner asleep until Alysane had sat on her bed, came ambling over in the way only a tired wolf can before licking her face. The she-wolf nearly reached down to do so, so giant she was.

Alys squeaked sharply. She’d not expected a good licking. Sansa did this sometimes when Alys was in great need of distraction, and seemed to know always the best times to work her magic. The mighty direwolf leaned in further, pushing Alys onto the bed before jumping in next to her, creating a larger dip than Alys herself did. She buried her face in the thick, warm and unbelievably soft fur of Sansa’s neck, giggling like a little girl. She wrapped her comparatively tiny arms around her she-wolf, who put her oversized head in Alys’ lap. She looked to her human with doleful and knowing eyes.

Something occurred to Alys after a moment of holding her friend. “Maybe we can finally let you outside,” she spoke softly. “Now we know that Rhaegal is safe.” Whenever she’d mentioned the dragon to the wolf, she’d flattened her ears and looked at Alys with scepticism and suspicion, suggesting that the wolf was well aware of the – Alys’ – dragon, as well as its connection to her, and did not trust it. Alys could hardly fault Sansa for this- it was not likely wise to trust a dragon. But Rhaegal had shown enough wisdom not to burn down Winterfell, and if push came to shove then Alys could always tell off the dragon with a thought, or so she hoped at least. At the mention of an escape beyond the walls of the castle, Sansa’s ears perked up, and while she didn’t move, her demeanour brightened considerably.

The other, likely more pressing problem came crashing back in after none too long, however. Three more dragons were now present, one of whom was larger even than Rhaegal herself – the largest living dragon, in fact, for she knew without having seen it which dragon her cousin Rhaella rode, Drogon – and they would have no reservations whilst hunting over burning Sansa alive. This was a major conundrum. Mention of it wasn’t even necessary, for Sansa felt Alys’ renewed worries before she’d shared them and went back to a look of frustration and concern.

A few long minutes passed in silence. Alys shifted her position then against Sansa’s, climbing on the bed fully and curling up next to her. She began, incrementally, to relax, falling slowly into the soft, deep fur of her wolf. When she felt as comfortable as she was likely going to manage under the circumstances, Alys allowed her mind to relax as well, setting it to drift away from her own body. Sansa’s mind, when she encountered it, was sleeping now, and Alys decided not to disturb her. A more important query awaited her.

Rhaegal was alight with excitement and expectation when Alys got to her. She did not need to be told that her brood-brother Drogon had come to Winterfell, and in fact had already found him. They circled one another, roaring and breathing short, powerful bursts of flame as what passed for dragon’s joy. Drogon’s flames shot black, instead of red or orange. 

Alys would have stayed with her longer if not for an insistent knocking upon her door. She did not notice at first, being away from her body, but eventually the sound bled through as it generally did when skinchanging and she found herself back in her rooms once again. The knocking came in three sharp raps, a knock Alys recognised as belonging to a guardsman named Robyn. He must have been sent to retrieve her. She let out a huff, extricated herself with the greatest reluctance from the bed and Sansa‘s plush pelt. “I’m coming!” she shouted to him. He didn’t hear, evidently, and kept up his insistent rapping. With a sigh, Alys finally made her way to the door, stretching on her way.

Robyn regarded her momentarily before nodding, biding her to follow him. He was a small, perpetually grim-faced man, and not one of her favourite guards. He never seemed to have any pleasant expressions and only rarely spoke, giving the impression of hostility. He led her back the solar, where her mother likely still was. She wondered, as she went, what fate might await her, but found it hard to think as straight as she wanted.

When Robyn opened the door for her, a flood of palpable tension spilled from the interior. Where it had felt too cold when she’d left, the room now took on a decidedly heated atmosphere. Her southron cousins were all still present, as was Alys’ mother, and each wore a different and troubling expression. Mother, the first Alys looked to, had a look of hurt and loss. Rhaella was apologetic, and more that Alys didn’t discern. Ser Daemon was stoic as ever, though subtly less comfortable, and Rhaenys simply seemed to want a way out. All present looked to Alys when she walked in, and her fear returned full force, though now more incisive since she’d had time to think on what was to come. As quickly as she could manage with any grace, Alys took one of the two empty seats.

“Dragons are creatures of terrible destruction,” began Rhaella, cautiously. “We-”

“Can’t let me have her,” finished Alys, knowing full well what she was going to say, though Rhaella would probably have used different words to describe the situation. The princess’s previously calm if uncomfortable demeanour cracked slightly, revealing surprise. “And you have to either take Rhaegal away, or take me south with her. With you,” she said. “You can’t simply allow me to stay, because I’m dangerous.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the princess. “We don’t need to leave immediately, but you are a dragonrider, and you need to be trained as such. I don’t know what your future holds, but without proper training you may leave accidental ruin in your wake. It’s happened before, and it shouldn’t happen again.”

“I know. I do know what happened to my father.” The princess bit her lower lip, as if realising a blunder. 

“So you’ll go with us willingly, then?” asked Rhaella.

“Yes, I will. I don’t see that I have much choice, and fighting it won’t help matters,” answered Alys.

Rhaella smiled for the first time since the courtyard what seemed like days ago, but could only have been an hour at most. “That’s good to hear. I’m sorry it has to be this way, Alysane. As I said, we don’t have to leave immediately, and we will need to make a proper saddle for you, but soon enough we shall need to be on the move. Winter is coming, after all.” Alys shivered at the mention of her House’s words, knowing how true they were just then.

Despite the bleak prospect of leaving home, Alys saw a silver lining. There was an opportunity to be seized here, and she knew just how to make use of it. “Mother, cousin, there’s something I would like to ask of you, as a condition of leaving willingly,” she said.

Her mother replied first. “What is it, Sweetling?”

Looking to both Mother and the princess, Alys closed her eyes for a moment before speaking. “I want you to promise me that you won’t promise me to anyone. I want you to promise me that you won’t try to marry me off while I’m in the south.”

Mother rose from her chair with frankly astonishing speed and hugged her daughter tightly. “Of course, Alysane. I wouldn’t dream of it. And when it comes time to marry, you will have the right to choose.” Alys embraced her only parent back with equal fervour, thankful beyond measure. This was far beyond what most daughters could expect.

When Mother eventually did move away, Alys saw Rhaella giving her a thoughtful look. After a few moments, Rhaella said, “of course. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And there it was. Alysane was going south.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa's daughter, Daenerys, reigned as queen after Daenerys I died, and was succeeded by her son Eddard I. His children include King Arthur (father of Ser Daemon), King Aemon (father of Rhaella and Rhaenys, and the incumbent monarch), Daeron (the father of Brandon, Edric, and Alysane), Elia, Daena, and Rhea. 
> 
> Jon and Sansa's second child, a son named Robb, becomes Lord of Winterfell after Sansa. His daughter, Elaena, succeeds him, and under her equal primogeniture in the North. Her daughter, Lyarra, succeeds her about nine years prior to the beginning of the Winter Dragon. 
> 
> This story mostly concerns the lives of King Eddard's grandchildren, though many others shall be involved soon.


	7. Rhaenys I, Alysane VI

Rhaenys had not expected Winterfell to be half so warm as she found it. Back in the solar, she thought it had to do with the tension in the room, when her sister had told their Aunt Lyarra about the whole dragon predicament, but the castle hadn’t gotten any colder after she’d left. Something about Winterfell’s history kept playing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t place quite what it was. Now, sitting here in the guest chambers provided for her and her companions, Rhaenys had to remove her winter clothing. Supper would be served soon, perhaps she could ask then. She could smell it already, its incomparable scents of baking bread and cooking boar wafting through the air. It would be nice to have a proper supper after weeks of wooden biscuits and leathery salt-pork. She’d eaten a decent lunch at Cerwyn with their hosts there earlier today, but it hadn’t been as lavish as what House Stark had in store for its guests.

Though the aroma of food made it increasingly difficult, Rhaenys had had a great deal of time to think about Alysane Stark and what it meant that she’d be accompanying her back to King’s Landing. Though she’d never spoken a word to her cousin, Rhaenys could tell she would like her, and after her request not to be married off she’d developed a good deal of respect for her Stark cousin’s wisdom. Most noblewomen, especially southerners, would simply expect that getting married off was the whole point of going to court in the first place, but that Alysane had made her not being married a condition of her departure spoke volumes about her intelligence. And Priorities, too. Rhaenys had no wish to be married off to some southern lordling for the sake of an alliance, the way all of her elder siblings and several of her cousins had been, and now she knew Alysane felt the same way. _I think I like this girl already._

It didn’t necessarily come as a great surprise. Alysane’s brother Edric spoke often of her wildness, and their mother’s complete inability to tame her, and Rhaenys paid rapt attention to all his tales of her wild Northern cousin. Now Rhaenys would finally get to meet her properly over supper.

But that was not for a half hour at least. In the meantime, Rhaenys decided she would embark upon what was perhaps her favourite endeavour: exploring. She’d spent her childhood wandering the halls – and later hidden passageways and secret tunnels – of the Red Keep and its surrounding city. The halls of Winterfell enticed her, for she was entirely new to them. She’d never spent any length of time in a Northern castle, and this was this was the largest and greatest of them all. She probably had no more than a week to learn as many of its secrets as she could, so it was best she make use of every spare moment. After a moment’s imagining of what might await her, she got up from the chair where she sat in her chamber and walked out the door.

The halls quickly proved an unsolvable maze, however. When Rhaenys tried to retrace her steps from the solar, she made a wrong turn somewhere and realised that she was lost amongst a network of same-looking granite passageways and corridors. Some searching revealed what she thought to be the right door – it was of the same rich oak as the solar's door had been – but it lead only to one of Winterfell’s many courtyards and a blast of cold autumn air in her face. She turned and walked hurriedly in the other direction from the door, but honestly didn’t know where in the Seven Hells she was going.

“Trying to get somewhere?” asked a familiar voice behind her. Rhaenys turned abruptly to find none other than Alysane Stark standing behind her, watching with an amused expression. Alysane had changed from her training leathers into a decent set of clothes, wearing now a beautiful blue gown embroidered with flowers. As before, she wore no shoes or stockings, moving about on pale bare feet.

“No,” said Rhaenys. “I was, but now I’m lost.”

“I can help you there. You must be Rhaenys, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Alysane. Call me Alys, if you like. My brothers do. Nice to meet you,” said Alys, smiling broadly.

“I know. Edric talks about you a lot,” said Rhaenys.

Alys’ face lit up at her brother’s mention. “I’m sure he does. We were always the closest. Anyways, if you want to find anything, I can help. It’s time for supper now though, so I think I'd better show you the castle tomorrow.”

“That sounds lovely. But you’re right, it’s time for food,” replied Rhaenys. It came out rather more eagerly than she’d intended.

Alysane smiled. “Have you ever seen a proper godswood? You need to see Winterfell’s. I’ve heard the one in the Red Keep doesn’t even have a proper Heart Tree, just some dumb oak.”

“I’ve seen the one in Highgarden. It was beautiful, if a little flowery for my taste. You’re right though, the Red Keep doesn’t have a weirwood.”

“That’s sad. You’ll get to see what a real Godswood looks like tomorrow though,” said Alys, pronouncing the word ‘godswood’ with the same audible reverence Rhaenys had heard Edric use in reference to his forest gods. She would never understand why anyone would want to worship a tree. From what she’d seen from the air earlier, Winterfell’s godswood, however, looked impressive enough that she would explore it anyway.

They continued comparing their respective castles and regions and their various benefits and detractors on the way to supper. So far, Winterfell seemed a heaven compared to King’s Landing the way Alys talked about it, existence here so carefree and wild. After a minute or two, Rhaenys became aware of a heavy, quiet breathing behind her. She looked over her shoulder at whatever it was, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw it.

It was a direwolf. Rhaenys had spent a good deal of time around Edric’s wolf, Meraxes (appropriately so, for the original Rhaenys had ridden the dragon Meraxes), and she was a very large wolf, easily the size of a large pony, but this one was truly a monster, at least as tall as a normal horse. It must have weighed fifteen stone at least, possibly more. She knew who this wolf was, however, and once the initial shock of a wolf so great wore down she extended her hand to it.

“Hello, Sansa. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Edric had warned her of Alysane’s enormous pushover of a wolf. Sansa, as Rhaenys predicted, simply sniffed her hand, then licked it lightly before losing interest and running off into the dining hall.

Rhaenys looked to Alys, who smiled wickedly for a moment before taking off down the hall after her wolf on surprisingly light and quiet feet. Rhaenys ran after her cousin and on into the hall as quickly as her legs would carry her.

The Great Hall was a warm, bright, bustling, and fabulously delicious-smelling room. Rhaenys had not expected it to be so: family suppers back home were invariably small affairs, consisting almost exclusively of royal family members and occasionally an honoured guest or two. Not so at Winterfell; Rhaenys saw guardsmen, washerwomen, a man in maester’s robes, decently-dressed chambermaids, and countless other serving types all sitting at the long tables in the middle of the room, talking and laughing together and sitting as if waiting to be served.

“Are we late to supper?” asked Rhaenys. Even as she said it, she knew it not to be the case: her sister and Kingsguard cousin sat at the high table with Lady Stark and Brandon, all talking amongst themselves.

“I certainly hope not. Our household usually dines with us. We’re pretty informal here,” Alys said. That much was obvious. This kind of thing would never be allowed in status-conscious King’s Landing, where nobles turned their noses up at the thought of smallfolk and knights strutted about like so many prideful roosters. One of Status did not fraternise with the serving class. “Usually, they don’t when we have important guests, but there are only three of you, and we weren’t exactly expecting you so…” So here they all were.

The whole scene was actually rather pleasant. Rhaenys had never much liked crowds, or the feasts full of grasping nobles and boorish lords her Kingly father held, but the atmosphere of happiness and camaraderie soon proved intoxicating, and she decided that she could stay here at her Aunt Lyarra’s castle.

The meal passed in a blur. The Stark family was a wonderful one, full of laughter and loud japes, and Brandon and Alysane were able even to coax their taciturn cousin Daemon into telling them a tale of his days wandering the countryside of Westeros. Alys sat next to her the whole evening, talking to her like an old friend, or sister even, and Rhaenys felt truly comfortable with her in a way she never had with her own siblings.

The night ended far too soon. _Be up by first light,_ Alys told her as they all made for their chambers. _I’ll send Sansa to your door._ Rhaenys couldn’t wait for morning.

\----

Alysane rose the next morning later than she’d intended, but still before the sun did. As she dressed for the cold predawn air in her warm fur trousers, longcoat, and fur-and-leather boots, Sansa ran off to collect Alys’ new favourite relation.

Despite the unwelcome news carried by her cousins, they had all turned out to be a delight, especially Rhaenys. Ser Daemon was a quiet one, but she and Brandon had eventually gotten him to talk, sometime near the end of supper. Rhaella, she’d found, was every bit the Crown Princess Alys would have expected: straight-backed, regal, elegant, and composed like no other. She handled herself at the table like a proper diplomat. At least she wasn’t a prude- the bawdy japes Brandon was wont to tell at every opportunity had simply made her smile more broadly, even when Mother was absolutely scandalised that he was telling them in front of – and to – a pair of princesses.

Rhaenys, though, Rhaenys was something else altogether. She was initially a little shy, but some prying of Alysane’s part and she’d opened up, revealing herself to be a fighter and explorer, an excellent combination, and a reader too. They had spent much of their time talking about their favourite knights and warrior princesses, and Rhaenys had shown such an unerring knowledge of both that Alys was challenged to find a story she couldn’t recite by rote. Though she hadn’t said it in as many words, she could tell the princess was rather taken with Winterfell, and very desirous of seeing it in more detail. Alys intended to show her as much as a few days would allow, starting with the godswood this morning.

Though the two had not spoken of their own abilities, Alys suspected that Rhaenys was good with a sword, and so, intent on sparring with her, she brought both her swords when she left for the godswood. Alys herself was decent with both, but a bit better with the longsword. This was mostly because she spent more time practicing with it, since it was what she would most likely encounter should she fight a Westerosi warrior, especially a knight. She wondered which Rhaenys would prefer: Water Dancing, with its small slender blades and quick fluid movements, the style most often used by modern women warriors, or traditional fencing, with a sword and shield.

The godswood was dark and still that morning. The cold forest air smelled crisp and clean. A heavy layer of pale white covered every tree and shrub in the wood, and a few flakes of powdery snow drifted lazily down on Alys as she made her way to the Heart Tree. Heart Trees, properly, at least, were weirwood trees, seemingly magical beings of red leaves and bark as white as snow. They’d usually had faces carved into them thousands of years ago by the Children of the Forest, and combined with their hand-shaped five-pointed leaves weirwoods often gave a strange, unsettling impression of being somehow _human,_ or at the very least alive more than any tree had a right to be. In the North, every castle had its godswood, and in every godswood was a weirwood Heart Tree, and numerous wild weirwoods dotted the countryside.

Winterfell’s weirwood had never failed to humble Alys, and here she felt more at peace than in the castle whenever something troubled her. With a few solemn movements, she placed her swords on the ground in front of the tree, and knelt in prayer. Though the godswood was a frequent place of respite and solitude for Alysane, it was a rare event for her to pray to her gods. She had taken to doing so more often now, after Brandon’s betrothal and her own issues with dragons.

She wasn’t sure how long she knelt. Time held little meaning here in this ancient and undisturbed wood, and the canopy above her was so dense that the line between night and early morning wasn’t very distinct. It didn’t feel like too long, but one could never be quite certain here. After her prayers, she let her mind slip away to Sansa’s, and found through her that she and Rhaenys were already in the wood. Her eyes snapped open, and she dusted the snow off her knees and hands before grabbing her swords and standing, impatient to greet her fire-haired cousin.

The wolf and the princess arrived presently, the former leading the latter through the dark and silent wood. Sansa scampered off into the woods to hunt once her delivery was successful. Rhaenys had dressed in the same warm riding gear she’d arrived at Winterfell in yesterday. The expression of wonder the princess wore was nearly enough to make Alys giggle like an idiot. Rhaenys stared out at the forest as if she’d just walked into another world, and in a sense she had: this was a place of the ancient ways of the First Men, and a southron princess was emphatically not a part of that world.

“Good morning, cousin,” Alys called to her.

Rhaenys didn’t seem to notice her at first, but eventually looked to her, and in a very small voice said, “You meant what you said about a proper godswood.”

This time Alys did laugh out loud. Her cousin didn’t seem to care, as she’d just then noticed the weirwood behind her. Captivated, she approached wide-eyed and laid a gloved hand upon the trunk not far from the solemn face carved into the bark. Alys gave her a moment to experience the tree, but decided quickly that she had more to do than wait.

“Rhaenys?” she asked.

She didn’t respond at first, standing motionless and touching her hand to the tree, but eventually spoke again in that small quiet voice just one word: “Needle.”

Alysane smiled. There had been no doubt in that statement. Rhaenys knew – and was game for – exactly the purpose for which Alys had brought her swords.  Her cousin even knew what sword she carried. Needle was not the best-known blade, and it caught Alys slightly off guard that Rhaenys knew its name. She had never encountered another outside of her own family who did. Perhaps it made sense though. Rhaenys was excellent with her history, and at least in the North Needle’s original owner, Arya Stark, a warrior woman who’d ruled Winterfell in all but name for fifty years, was important to the past, and so it stood to reason that one familiar with warrior women might know it.

“Catch!” Alys shouted, tossing the slim blade her way. Rhaenys caught it by its sheath in a surprising turn of speed, and drew it slowly, as if savouring the moment.

“I’ve always wanted to hold Needle,” she said. “Arya Stark is one of my favourite women. Thank you for the opportunity. I never thought I would get one.”

“My favourite, too. It’s not really as impressive as you’d think,” Alys said. “Rather plain, actually.”

“It’s perfect, I think,” said Rhaenys, giving a few test swings and thrusts.

Without warning she lunged at Alys, giving almost no time to react. Alys was quick though, and danced out of the way of Needle, drawing her Snow in the process. Taking a better stance, she prepared for Rhaenys’ next attack, knocking Needle away and swinging at Rhaenys, who danced away in technically excellent form.

They traded blows for several more minutes in companionable silence before it became evident that Alys, an inch or so taller and perhaps a bit stronger, and slightly better-trained with her chosen weapon, had enough of an advantage to come out on top. Rhaenys yielded after Alys managed to corner her against a tree.

By that point the sun was most certainly up, and Alys knew that there would be food available soon. “Time to break our fast,” she said to her cousin. Rhaenys nodded enthusiastically and jogged over to the Heart Tree to retrieve Needle’s scabbard. Alys whistled, signalling for Sansa to return, and when the wolf did the three walked together to the dining hall to see what they could devour.

  



	8. Alysane VII, part one

Alysane needed to say goodbye to her brother. The late autumn sun was setting, in a clear sky for the first time in more than a month, and tomorrow at sunrise Alys and her royal cousins would depart for King’s Landing.

She found Brandon exactly where she thought she would: in the forge. Though few lords took to any hobbies they saw as being occupations of servants and smallfolk, Brandon had always wanted to make things, and so persisted in learning the art of steel and hammers. It made him happy, more than almost anything else. Being the future Lord of Winterfell simply held him back from his potential, though Alys had no doubt that he would make a good lord some day. Were she Mother’s heir instead of him, she would have freed him of a lord’s duties and made him the castle smith, for he certainly had the skill. He could craft swords and armour as well as Winterfell’s castle smith, Eddison, and had even crafted Snow for his sister. Alas, such appointments were not up to her.

When she found him, he was beating a long, thin piece of steel on the anvil. As sometimes happens when he was upset, he hit it with such force that it sang, loud and clear. Even in the cold autumn air the forge was hot enough he wore only trousers and an apron.

Brandon Stark was a very strong man, as readily able to use a warhammer in battle as King Robert the Usurper had. More than six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered and rippling with muscle, and with the chestnut brown hair and grey eyes characteristic of Northmen, he was a maiden’s fantasy, and Alys heard her friends among Winterfell’s servants talking about him constantly. He was her brother, however, so they didn’t talk about him as much when she was around, but especially in regards to his forge attire their constant looks and whispers were hard to miss.

Unless, of course, you were Brandon Stark. _A maiden’s fantasy,_ she thought, _who did not fantasise about maidens_. Alysane had told him about the serving girls and their whisperings before, and he’d simply looked at her dumbly in confusion when she did.

Though no one within earshot of the Starks had ever said so out loud, it was not a well-kept secret that his preferences ran towards those of a more masculine persuasion. Alysane supported him in this, as he was family, and such was what one did with one’s brothers. It was strange to think that in less than half a year he would be married to a girl of five-and-ten, and a naiive southerner at that.

He had his back turned to her when she arrived, and she made not a sound as she entered the forge. Alys sat on a workbench and sat to watch him. She’d always loved doing this, watching him at his craft, and had begun doing so when she was probably no more than six. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to be in the forge, especially when it was active, but then there were a great many things she was not supposed to do but still did at every opportunity. When, after several minutes she realised Brandon hadn’t seen her, she cleared her throat. He still didn’t notice. She did so a second time, a little louder. This time he did. His back straightened suddenly, and he looked around for a moment before finding his sister.

He smiled sadly at her before putting down his tools and metal and walking over to pull her into a deep embrace. While Alysane was not a small woman, as tall as a lot of men though very slender and light, Brandon was large enough to make her feel no greater than a mouse. It wasn’t all that different from being embraced by a hairless bear.

“I’m going to miss you, Alys,” he said quietly.

“I’m going to miss you too,” she said in reply. Both were quiet for a long moment.

“Alys?”

“Yes, Brandon?”

“Will you come to my wedding?” he asked, breaking the embrace.

“You’re going to Runestone for it, right?” Alys asked in return.

“Unfortunately, yes. I wish I could have the wedding here, but you know how tense the situation is in the Vale, especially for Lord Royce.” House Royce of Runestone was one of the Vale of Arryn’s oldest and most prominent families, and had sided with Lady Gwen Hunter during the crisis of fourteen years ago, when Lady Gwen’s cousin, Jorah, had tried to claim her seat. For months the local civil war raged, until Alys and Brandon’s father Daeron Targaryen had simply burned Jorah Hunter and most of his supporters alive on the slopes of the Giant’s Lance.  Lord Jerod Royce was still one of Lady Gwen’s foremost supporters, but a great deal of uncertainty remained, as did more than a little bitterness. A show of strength, such as marrying his daughter to a Stark and making her Winterfell’s future Lady, and the alliance such an action brought, was exactly what Lord Jerod needed.

“I guess we have father to thank for the trip, don’t we?” Alys jested halfheartedly.

“That we do, sister,” he said.

“If the King allows me to, I’ll come. I want to be there. Maybe I can bring Edric, too.”

“I’d like that. Life here isn’t right without him. It’ll be worse without you, Alys.”

“Speaking of Edric, do you think I should send him a letter? Tell him I’m coming? I want to surprise him, but I also want to be the first to tell him, and I won’t be able to keep my coming secret,” she said.

“I think so. I’d want one, at least. Do what you think best,” he answered, drawing her into another embrace. They were silent for a while longer.

Thinking about House Stark’s mess brought a thought she’d had some time ago back to mind. “Duty is the death of family, isn’t it? We’re all being separated, and sent away, one by one,” she said.

“I know. We should be allowed to stay. This is our home. But you’re not quite right,” he replied, cryptically.

“About what?”

“Duty is not the death of family. Family is the font of duty.”


	9. Alysane VII, part two

Alysane allowed her mind to slip away from her body. After some moments, she felt the powerful mind of Rhaegal awaiting her. She was hunting, but when she felt Alys’ presence she turned about swiftly and made her way back towards Winterfell.

Alys stood in front of Winterfell’s main gate, her dragon’s large saddle by her side, with her three cousins, ready to depart for the capital. A week and a half of chaos and preparation had passed since the princesses had arrived, and now, finally, they were actually about to go. She was leaving Winterfell, her home, where she’d spent almost her entire life, and had no idea for how long. It made her sad to think she would not be coming home again for a long time, but it did not scare her the way it might have. As Rhaenys had said of her coming to Winterfell, it was just the next adventure.

Of all the times when she had to leave, at least, this was a good one. Winter was only beginning, and the North was not a good place to try and travel through even during the storms of autumn. Alys would likely have been confined more often that not to within Winterfell’s walls, as she had during the last winter when she was twelve. This winter, she would be free.

And what freedom! She’d yet to fly on dragonback herself, but had been inside Rhaegal’s mind often enough to feel what a dragon felt while flying, and it was a feeling Alys knew she would never tire of. When she’d talked to Rhaenys a couple of days ago about flying, the princess had told her it was even better in person. How that was possible, Alys was not certain, but if it was true she could not wait to saddle Rhaegal and fly upon her.

She didn’t have to wait long, at least. Rhaegal had been far over the Wolfswood, but she was a strong flyer even among other dragons and made better time than her cousins’ mounts did. Alys could feel her growing closer before a great shadow passed over her. The mighty green dragon circled about, slowed, and finally landed with a powerful thud on the ground before her.

Alys had not seen Rhaegal up close for more than three weeks, when she’d first come to Winterfell, and even then she’d seen her only in passing, since she had flown straight over Winterfell, not stopping to be examined. Alys had thought Rhaegal beautiful even then, but now she proved even more impressive. Her scales, green and bronze, shone like polished metal in the morning sun, and her long, lithe, incredibly muscular form spoke to a power greater than Alys could have ever imagined during her dragon-brained childhood. Rhaegal’s eyes, too, were surprisingly intelligent, rather like a wolf’s, though more intense.

“Ser Daemon, if you please,” said Rhaella from Alysane’s right. The knight strode to Alys’ side and helped her heave the saddle over to Rhaegal’s enormous neck. No easy task; the giant leather-and-steel construct weighed over a hundred pounds, all told, and  even on the ground the dragon’s neck was taller than either Alysane or Ser Daemon. The saddling itself wasn’t actually all that complicated, thankfully, essentially like what one might do for a horse, if the horse were thicker around the middle than most trees.

They managed, eventually, by which time the other three dragons had all arrived on their masters’ mental calls. There was Drogon, the titanic black mount of Princess Rhaella, Gygax, the snow-white dragon of Ser Daemon, and Rhaenys’ blue-and-silver Vivax, all lined up in front of the gates. The other three were already saddled, so all that was left was to climb on and be off.

Without fear, though not without some reservation, Alysane climbed up the ladder on the side Rhaegal’s saddle (she was too large for anything else to work), took a seat, and locked her feet in the stirrups. They weren’t really all that functional for control, but one needed to secure themself on a dragon even more than on a horse. Rhaegal hummed almost audibly with impatience, wanting to be in the air, and Alys wanted to fly too, but she was following her cousins’ lead, and would need to wait. Once Rhaella and Drogon were in the air, both dragon and rider decided that they’d waited long enough and took off after them.

The whole process was more sudden than Alys had anticipated. One forceful flap, two, three, and they were off, flying away into the endless blue skies of the North. Rhaenys and Ser Daemon followed behind her.

As they flew, onwards toward Castle Cerwyn, where they would stop for the first night of the journey, Alys thought on Brandon’s words to her from last night. _Family is the font of duty._ Family was why there was duty. It didn’t make a great deal of sense, then, that family was the reason why her family was being slowly rent apart, separated into little cells across the realm or changed from within by marriage. Even if, sometime later in life, she understood why these things had to happen, she knew it would always hurt.


End file.
